


I Have A Grave To Dig

by Pistol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:03:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistol/pseuds/Pistol
Summary: The spell takes effect on at thirteen minutes past six AM. Stiles knows this because the clocks haven’t moved since then. Digital, mechanical, or otherwise; they're all stuck. It's not the worst magical fuckup Stiles has ever seen but it is pretty fucking annoying when he's late to class.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	I Have A Grave To Dig

The spell takes effect on at thirteen minutes past six AM. Stiles knows this because the clocks haven’t moved since then. Digital, mechanical, or otherwise; they're all stuck. It's not the worst magical fuckup Stiles has ever seen but it is pretty fucking annoying when he's late to class. Worse, it's a stubborn spell and by the end of the day even the Fae deputy who works with his dad hadn't managed to unfuck the clocks at the police station.

"Something’s not right," Deaton tells Stiles with a seriousness that reaches his eyes. 

Stiles waves him off, "It's just a glitch. Probably just like when that coven in SoCal wanted to make it rain but ended up shorting out all the washing machines last year." He stops, shifting the oversized bag of cat food Deaton had shoved at him from one hip to the other before continuing up the stairs. 

"Whatever it is, someone'll fix it. And there'll probably be another hiring boom for people with a spark,” Stiles wiggles his fingers for effect, “just like when Maytag had to hire all those 'consultants' to ward up their product lines against water magic shenanigans."

Deaton doesn't look convinced. "Yes, but if it was a glitch I'd be able to wind my watch."

"Wait," Stiles frowns, "you can't wind them?"

Deaton gives him a sad smile and Stiles gets the distinct feeling he's thinking _oh, child._ They continue to climb the rickety stairs in silence, stopping only when Deaton pulls out his key and unlocks the door to his apartment. Deaton turns once his door is open and stares pointedly across the hall at Stiles’ door. 

The cheap protection ward and the even cheaper sigil painted on the wood announce the entrance to a demon's territory. Albeit, a very _poor_ demon's territory.

"You know, I could shatter those in minutes."

"It's not like I have anything worth taking," Stiles reminds him. "Besides, if some psycho happens to break in while I'm in there I'll just jump over to your place and hide behind you. You'll protect me, won't you, Doc?" 

Deaton's ignoring Stiles though, staring at the door like he's looking through it towards something only he can see. For all Stiles knows, he could very well be. The Fae are mysterious fuckers like that.

"Visible time has stilled once before."

Stiles perks up, curiosity overriding his annoyance. "And? What happened?" 

Deaton shrugs. "No matter where the sun was in the sky, the sundials simply refused to change."

"But you fixed it, right? I mean, 'cause I grew up with a working alarm clock so it has to be something that can be fixed. If it wasn't, don't you think the news would be freaking out instead of talking about the new deli on Tenth Street is serving charm and hormone free chicken…" Stiles trails off as the morning's cheery and upbeat news stories starts to sour in his mind. 

Beacon Hills isn't a big city, but it _is_ a busy city. A city with one of the highest non-human populations in the nation which tends to mean that something more than a deli and a good weather forecast should have made the news by now... 

Next to him Deaton looks tired and Stiles is painfully aware that the Fae can't lie.

"What do you think is happening?" He asks before he can talk himself out of it.

"I think, Mr. Stilinski, that you should invest in better wards."

That argument is familiar enough to help soothe some of his worry. Not enough, but some. Stiles tries to ignore the way he can feel the much stronger and much better made wards of Deaton's apartment reaching out across the hallway to extend a welcome to him. Stiles grasps at a few more moments of ignorance and motions to the oversized bag of cat food Deaton demanded he carry.

"Kitchen," Deaton he confirms off-handedly.

Stiles pushes open Deaton's door, the warmth of the familiar wards brushing over Stiles’ skin with the same affection as the small grey kitten who almost trips Stiles as she twines around his legs. He deposits the cat food in the kitchen pantry, stopping to scratch Zephyr under her chin before returning to Deaton, who's still fussing over Stiles' wards.

He turns to Stiles with an unimpressed frown and Stiles rolls his eyes, already anticipating the same admonishments Deaton has been handing out ever since he moved in across the hall from Stiles. 

Instead of the familiar lecture, Deaton is silent. 

Stiles clears his throat, "Doc?"

"I have to leave town and I'm not sure when I'll be back. I'll need you to watch the kitten for me."

Stiles feels the hair on the back of his neck raise. Every fiber of his being is telling him something is wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Deaton sighs, "You asked what happened."

"I-" _don't want to know_, Stiles wants to say. 

“We didn't know it at the time, but a rift had been opened in our world. For three days time stilled the dead rose and laid siege to the people of Rome. On the third day, six dozen witches sacrificed themselves to close the tear. Cleansing fire returned the dead to their graves while Rome burned."

"That wasn't in any History book I've ever... I mean, the dead don't just-" Stiles can't- _won't_ bring himself to finish that sentence. Lying to the Fae is never wise.

Deaton grips his arm as Stiles begins to sway, feeling like he's underwater disoriented and unable to breathe. Stiles' brain makes a painful connection even though he's not sure which way is up anymore. 

"This isn't a glitch." It's not a question.

"No, it's not."

"Then..."

"Get supplies," Deaton urges, his grip tightening on Stiles' arm, "better wards, and weapons."

Stiles nods dumbly, "We need to tell-"

"Would they believe you?"

Stiles winces. A half-demon warning people that the dead were going to rise? Even with Stiles' dad as a sheriff no one would pay him any mind. Stiles titters nervously, "They'd believe you - they'd _have_ to. The Fae can't lie so-"

"No," Deaton says sternly, "I am forbidden from speaking of this to anyone."

"You told me," Stiles retorts.

"I was allowed to warn a single person."

"And you chose _me?_" Stiles snorts, "Your life choices need some work, man. Besides, you were _forbidden_? By who?" Deaton is old, _fairy tale_ old, no one forbids someone that old from doing _anything_ unless they have a death wish. 

"The Council." 

"The Council knows?" Stiles's voice goes so high it breaks.

Deaton shushes him with a glare before glancing around around the empty hallway. His voice drops to a whisper. "Of _course_ the Council knows."

"Then why aren't they doing anything?! They're the Council of Divine _fucking_ Charity!" Stiles hisses, "Their whole thing is to _help_ when something magic goes wrong!"

Deaton gives him a pitying look, "They know, but right now they don't have any answers. They're doing all they can, but the longer they can keep the panic at bay the better chances we have at finding a solution."

"But-"

"What do you think would happen if people found out what is coming?"

Stiles blinks, "They'd worry. But they'd want to help-"

"And how many of those people would resort to trying magics beyond their ken? How many _new_ messes would the Council have to clean up?"

Stiles doesn't bother answering. He knows how tempting it is to try to bend the universe to your will, he knows fear can motivate as strongly as grief. He's seen the results, hell, he's the reason the Council had to quarantine the cemetery back when he was in middle school and his mom had crawled out of her coffin as something … _else_. Something that had tried to kill him, something that would have killed him if a Council Knight hadn't shoved Stiles out of the way, losing his right eye in the process of sending Stiles' mother back into death. 

Deaton shakes Stiles, gently pulling him out of his memories.

"Go. Get supplies." 

"You _want_ me to go shopping?" It's strange, but for some reason _this_ feels like the craziest thing Stiles' heard all day. "The world is ending and your plan is to be all _mysterious_ before sending me to the store?!"

"I want you to do whatever it takes to stay alive, Stiles. I want you to _survive_ what is coming." There's a fierceness in Deaton's voice that almost scares him, reminds Stiles that he's speaking to a Fae who was born while Rome was still young and magics had run wild. 

Nervous laughter bubbles up and Stiles laughs until he feels his eyes flicker over to black. He keeps laughing.

"We don't have time for this now," Deaton snaps. "You'll have time later, but right now you need to get ready. I'll make you a list."

"A list," Stiles echoes, because otherwise he might cry or scream. He squeezes his eyes shut until he's sure they're normal again.

Deaton pulls out a tiny pad of paper and a pen from his pocket and stands there in the empty hallway scribbling on the paper while Stiles feels like he's losing his mind. Deaton reads it over twice, jotting down last minute notes before he rips the page off and hands it to Stiles along with a wad of bills Stiles is fairly certain are real and not just Rowan tree flowers under a glamor. He takes both on auto pilot, unable to stop staring at the thick wad of bills he knows he should question.

"Stiles, _go_."

"Do you..." He trails off, unsure of the protocol for this and settles for holding up the money. "Will this get me arrested for forgery, 'cause, you know, Dad's the Sheriff and all. While I might not have the morals required to object to free money from dubious sources, which yes - you qualify for right now, I do have the urge to resist jail time and lectures."

Deaton glares, looking offended. "No, and even if it was a forgery no one would ever know. Now _go_ already."

A flare of old power that reeks of Deaton washes over Stiles and sends him tumbling into the veil and out at his Jeep in the parking lot. He stands there for a moment, trying to process the thoughts floating around his head and how Deaton had managed to pry open the demon veil - something Deaton shouldn't have even been able to sense let alone control. 

Around Stiles people are going about their day, all of them oblivious to-

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, to warn them, to maybe just scream until the world starts making more sense but his throat burns when he tries and his voice is nowhere to be found. His arm, where Deaton's hand had been, throbs and pulses with a faint blue light when he tries to warn a vampire passing by obliviously on her Vespa.

The rage at Deaton's manipulation hits Stiles hard and fast, his eyes flickering to black as his nails gouge themselves into his palm, shredding the list. Stiles debates throwing the crumpled thing away until a hastily scribbled cluster of words catch his eye. On a whim he smooths it out on the side of his Jeep.

Water, non-perishable food, first-aid, and various other items both magical and not are listed. At the bottom there's a sentence that shimmers in bright blue light. 

_I apologize, but you know I can't let you make this any worse than it already is._

+

The dead start walking on Wednesday and Deaton is either ignoring Stiles' calls or unable to pick up the phone. Either way, Stiles spends most of the day avoiding his dad's calls and cursing at the frozen clocks when he isn't cursing at Deaton's voice mail. Later he curses at the universe as a whole when Scott shows up fully shifted outside his door. Scott manages to look both dangerous and disoriented as he stands there before latching on to Stiles so hard it hurts. Stiles doesn't fight it, doesn't make a peep even as Scott's strength nearly crushes his ribs.

"Whoa buddy," Stiles whispers, "I'm here, I'm here."

"The hospital," Scott whimpers into his shoulder. He doesn't say any more but Stiles gets a clear enough picture as he recalls hearing the news warning people to avoid seeking medical attention at the local hospitals and to stay inside no matter what.

+

Stiles' dad texts him at some point, having given up on Stiles picking up his phone and tells him that he and his men are stepping up their patrols. 

Stiles and Scott sprawl out over the couch that night and listen to Stiles' pilfered police scanner. The channel that's normally so boring is almost never silent, especially after orders are called out to pick up riot gear along with extra ammo and wards. 

Stiles pretends not to notice when his wards perk up anytime his dad drives by his apartment complex for bi-hourly check ups. Despite his best efforts the guilt eats away at Stiles as he stares at his TV, watching muted footage of Council Knights being deployed in full force while over the scanner his dad's voice wavers as he screams for the nearest available unit to back up car fifteen up on the north end of town. 

_This is car six,_ another officer radios in - Deputy Boyd, Stiles is pretty sure, we have two officers down.

+

Stiles is pulling into his apartment complex when the first signs of chaos start popping up in his end of town. Screaming and sirens are echoing all around down the street and make him itch to flee through the veil to anywhere but _here_.

A woman and three men huddle around the side of a car, their faces blank as they listen to the car radio while the announcer explains that as far as anyone can tell a spell, believed to be necrotic in nature, has gone wrong. The radio announcer's voice is soothing as he reminds everyone to stay calm and remain in their homes until the Council of Divine Charity has more information.

"I heard from my sister that LA is a dead zone. No one is left alive there," the woman says in a too calm to actually be calm voice. It's a tone Stiles has been hearing over the police scanner a lot lately.

"It's only a matter of time 'till the smaller towns are like that," one of the men agrees. "If the dead don't get us first, the survivors will."

Stiles tunes them out and grabs everything he can from the Jeep - the last of the things from Deaton's list - and slips through the veil and into his living room. It's a waste of energy, but it's better than having to walk by any more people he can't talk to. 

"Hey," Scott calls, reaching out to grab half the bags with a pinched expression. "You okay? You don't normally jump-"

"I'm fine," Stiles lies, "do you mind starting to sort this stuff out? I gotta check on Deaton's cat."

+

Scott puts together a feast that night. The power had gone out the night before and the cold charms Stiles had traded his iPod for won't hold up for much longer. There's pizza, soggy jalapeno poppers, and a sampling of everything that shoved in the back of his freezer before the dead started to walk.

Stiles doesn't ask and isn't all that surprised when Scott calls dibs on Stiles' best pillow. To the best of Stiles' knowledge Scott hasn't gone home since the hospital fell.

"'Night," Scott whispers as he settles into the left side of Stiles' bed.

"'Night," Stiles answers as he mentally reaches out towards the intangible strings that tie his wards to him. He gives them a gentle tug, listening to their whining at his treatment before drifting off to their protective hum that mimics Scott's breathing.

+

Stiles is shaking of the final traces of sleep and trying to find a granola bar that doesn't contain raisins when he notices something is amiss. Sitting on his kitchen counter, calmly washing her paws, is Zephyr.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles distinctly remembers leaving Zephyr in a blissed out pile of sleepy kitten before locking Deaton's door and coming back to his own apartment.

Zephyr blinks up at him, giving a tiny kitten cry before moving closer to butt her head against Stiles' arm in a demand for attention.

There's still no sign of Deaton when Stiles goes over and unlocks his door - even stranger the wards from Deaton's door are gone. The pictures and spirit shrine that used to be in Deaton's living room are noticeably absent, a change that makes Stiles' hands clench. Upon closer inspection the kitchen counter has an envelope with Stiles' name written on sitting next to what appears to be the world's ugliest baseball bat.

_Gone to the CDC to try to sort this mess out._  
The third door on the left of the sink there are some charms you might be able to use, take them and anything else you need as I won't be coming back.  
Take care of the cat and remember that scared people are dangerous people. 

Unable to do more than punch the wall in his impotent rage, Stiles tosses the note back on the counter and picks up the bat. As soon as he lays both hands on it, the bat burns so hot Stiles almost drops it. Before he can release his fingers the heat fades away like it never existed.

"What the fuck," Stiles mutters as he turns the bat over in his hands cautiously. His eyes trace along the delicate etching along its sides where Fae runes glow brightly up at him, before fading into nothing. The echo of power hums through the wood, soaking into Stiles' skin.

Mentally Stiles does the math. A warding like this would be worth enough to pay off his student loans. Possibly his father's mortgage. A ward like _this_ shouldn't be in laying on the counter of a man who works part-time as a vet and lives in a shitty low rent apartment.

But then again, how many vets have contact with the CDC? Or saw various nations rise and fall?

Somewhere outside the apartment sirens are getting closer and someone is screaming. Stiles tucks the bat under his arm and starts digging through Deaton's cabinets. There's a brown paper bag that puts off magic vibes strong enough to make Stiles' eyes water. Whatever is in the bag makes the bat look like child's play.

And seriously, _why the fuck_ does Deaton have tens of thousands of dollars worth of wards hanging out with his muffin trays? 

On the bright side, if this situation is as bad as Stiles thinks it is his student loans aren't likely to be a problem for very much longer.

+

The people on the radio and news can't seem decide who to place the blame on for the dead that roam the streets. Covens are being massacred by mobs of frightened people who need someone to scapegoat as mindless zombies continue to bite and claw at any poor creature who crosses their path with no avail.

The calls keep coming in from his dad, but Stiles continues to avoid all but the bare minimum of contact with him. The things he can't say are too big to try to have a conversation around. Luckily his phone's battery dies and it becomes a non issue when the Elves down the hall stop letting other people use their generator for more than one item a day. Stiles alternates charging his laptop, the police scanner, and the batteries for the radio.

+

In the matter of a few days Beacon Hills has become nothing like the billboards around town boasting about their town's diversity and acceptance. Outside Stiles' living room window there's a billboard that shows three girls laughing: a pretty blonde with her black eyes on, a vampire in an Al-Amira Hijab whose smile is happy but toothy, and a witch with her arms bent to the side so as to best display the earth wards inked into her arms. Below the smiling girls on the billboard five bodies are hanging lifeless from ropes. All of them are bare chested and in the moonlight their coven tattoos stand out like a warning to others.

+

It's a Thursday when the Sheriff's voice calls over the police scanner, rousing Stiles from his nap.

_If you have families,_ his dad says solemnly, _you should go to them._

Scott comes crawling through the window, still shifted and covered in blackened blood as he crawls into the space next to Stiles on the couch. Stiles finds himself wondering if Scott had returned returned to his human form at all since the hospital was overrun with the dead.

"I can find somewhere else to stay if you want," Scott says, breaking the silence. "I never asked, but-"

"_Dude_," Stiles scoffs, dragging him closer and ignoring the smell of rotting blood and trying to ignore the world as it ends.

+

"You're quiet," Scott says over breakfast. 

Stiles looks pointedly towards his window and the chaotic sounds that drift through it. Sirens, screams, and the crackle in the air that comes from magic gone awry. 

"I figure there's enough noise, don't you?"

Scott looks at the bat that Stiles has kept by his side at all times before going back to his food. For a moment Stiles isn't sure if it's kindness or cruelty that stops Scott from asking Stiles any questions he can't answer. On Stiles' lap, Zephyr continues to purr.

+

"I couldn't tell you, even if you asked," Stiles finds himself saying as he double checks his wards before bed. "I would if I could… but…"

Scott doesn't say anything in response, simply continues to shadow Stiles as he makes his rounds like nothing was said. When Stiles crawls under the blankets of his bed Scott settles himself between Stiles and the bedroom door.

"Is it bad?"

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. In the distance the crack of lightning echoes despite the cloudless sky. 

+

By the time the government has stopped pretending that everything will be okay and the Council is already stretched so thin there's no one around to give the news reporters any answers.

+

The walls of the apartment start to shake around noon, the hair rising on the back of Stiles' neck at the same time his wards and Scott start to growl.

Stiles shoves Zephyr, his bat, and their carefully packed bug out bags at Scott before wrapping his arms around Scott dragging them all through the veil and into his dad's kitchen just as the walls of his apartment had started to burn. 

There's a sticky trail of blood pouring from Stiles' nose when they arrive. When he moves to wipe it away the whole earth seems to spin. Luckily, Scott is there, steadying him until it stops.

"You could have just taken us to the Jeep," Scott admonishes.

"Right, because even if the parking lot has somehow managed to survive that glitch, driving around town seems like a perfectly fine idea. I hear the zombie hoards have been good about obeying traffic laws."

"Well, it's better than you killing yourself," Scott hisses, his eyes flashing gold.

The guilt from his forced silence is still there, smothering Stiles' thoughts and making him tempted to suggest that maybe, just maybe, Scott is wrong. Instead Stiles wipes his bleeding nose on his sleeve and tugs at Scott's hands until he releases Zephyr to sniff and wander around his fathers house.

When he looks up, Scott is glaring at him like he somehow heard Stiles' thoughts. 

"Stiles," he says.

"Don't," Stiles begs him, "please, just _don't_."

+

His dad pulls into the driveway not long after the moon rises, four uniformed deputies laden with wooden boards following him into the house like ducklings. All four look over Stiles and Scott before silently moving into the house and starting to board up the windows. Stiles can't see Scott's eyes, but he bets they were glowing the same way the others were as they sized them up a minute ago. 

"Hey," his dad says quietly from the kitchen archway. He's either unwilling or unable to continue their fight on why Stiles had refused to pick up his phone or come home until now, his shoulders slumped in a way that belies his age in a way Stiles hates to acknowledge.

Stiles swallows and for the first time in days his body doesn't rebel when he tells his dad _we need to talk._

Scott wanders off, moving to help the strangers that are far too comfortable as they move about the living room. They make small talk with Scott in relation to their tasks, giving Stiles and his dad the illusion of privacy in a house filled with werewolves.

+

For almost an hour Stiles and his dad try not to scream at each other. They don't always succeed, but they do their best to maintain as civil a conversation as a father and his half-demon spawn can have during the apocalypse. 

His dad points out that he never trusted Deaton and Stiles points out that no one _except_ Scott and Deaton trusted a half demon kid. 

"I wanted to tell you, god, I wanted to tell you so _fucking_ bad. And I tried too. I tried to text it, write it, draw it, you name it - I tried," Stiles insists, his voice breaking under the strain of things left unsaid. "I couldn't say _anything,_ Dad. Not until today."

The Sheriff sighs, pulling Stiles into a too tight hug and promises Stiles over and over that everything will be alright, that it's okay. Stiles knows that in the living room five werewolves just heard his dad lying.

+

Over an awkward meal of canned foods around an overcrowded table they all pretend the last few hours didn't happen. After some leg shuffling and throat clearing the Sheriff rolls his eyes and starts introductions around the table. The wolf who flashed his Beta-blue eyes is Derek and the others are Erica, Isaac, and Boyd. Despite noticeably lacking an Alpha Stiles notes that they seem to be a pack in everything but name. 

It doesn't take long to put faces to the names from his dad's work stories and Stiles feels himself relax just a fraction. He feels like he almost knows them having listened to so many stories and so many hours on his police scanner long before the world ended. He knows Erica held the office record for requiring workplace harassment talks and couldn't seem to wear her uniform correctly. He knows that Boyd has a soft spot a mile wide for animals even though they don't like to be anywhere near him. He remembers that his dad suspected Isaac would wash out after joining up - only to be pleasantly surprised by his dedication and determination. It's harder to get a read on Derek who's mostly silent. Stiles' father often had worried over Derek who has a past that his father carefully avoided speaking about. Derek doesn't seem so bad. His edges are razor sharp, Stiles is sure, but he seems less dangerous and more like someone who ended up in the crash bang bin of the universe and started to believe he belonged there.

+

The biggest enemy they have, besides the walking dead, is their lack of knowledge. 

Well, that and a very limited supply of deodorant the wolves refuse to touch. It's a problem, no matter how many times the wolves spout their garbage about not requiring chemicals to prevent natural bodily functions before hogging the showers.

Scott is the only wolf who uses the stuff, which Stiles makes a point of thanking him for everyday.

\+ 

Stiles starts to climb the walls, literally, after a few days of him and Scott not being included in patrols. Eventually he drags all his books and his computer down to the dining room table while making Scott man the tiny hand-crank generator that powers the cable modem.

He's not the only one who's online. Others are active and trying to make sense of recent events. It takes longer than he'd like, but eventually Stiles wanders into a message board with less 'the sky is falling' and more intelligent questions being asked and addressed by seemingly capable people. 

Somewhere between sunup and noon he falls asleep on his laptop and wakes up in his bed. Erica and Scott are bracketing him, Isaac and Boyd sprawled on the air mattress his dad had already had out and inflated when he and Scott had arrived. Stiles lays there, warm and surrounded, and wonders for the first time when his dad started to need a third bed in the house.

+

"They've been staying here since the hospital fell," his dad says by way of greeting when Stiles stumbles into the kitchen.

Stiles grunts, "Figured."

"They're good kids," John says with the intensity he'd always used when trying to explain something he hoped Stiles would be able to comprehend. 

Stiles' childhood had been rough and got only rougher when the school and his dad had realized that Stiles - unlike most demon hybrids - had gotten the majority of his empathy from his mother's side of the family. Stiles doesn't lack empathy, not like true demons do, but where most people have a mostly full cup Stiles' is barely half-filled and reserved for a very specific selection of people. Many childhood conversations had started with the Sheriff using this tone, explanations and rules he knew his dad wasn't sure he actually understood, let alone cared about.

Stiles snags a bottle of water from the fridge, drinking deeply and contemplating his father's comment. 

"I'm not sure why you're telling me this..?"

"Just," the Sheriff sighs, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, "they're going to be staying here indefinitely, Stiles. Their Alpha, who wasn't much of an Alpha to begin with, was part of the detail working at the hospital. Peter didn't make it out alive."

Stiles muses on that. Clearly not just a group of Omegas that joined up in a pseudo pack with a Beta, Stiles had thought. They're a real pack who recently lost their leader, only to find another. A decidedly more _human_ one. 

"I'm guessing they started staying here after?"

His dad nods. 

Stiles sets his water bottle down on the counter with more force than necessary. 

"I tried to tell you, but you weren't exactly returning my calls."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles snaps, "but do you get that this is kinda a lot to take in? Most guys have a midlife crisis and get a new car. You? You become the human Alpha of a pack of wolves!" There's an unkind edge to Stiles' voice that he regrets but doesn't stop. "Where does this even leave _me_?"

"You're my _son_, it leaves you where you've always been," his dad all but growls. "But it _does_ leave you in a position to consider thinking of them as family. Your family."

Stiles hears the command buried under well-meant platitudes. These people are not expendable to his father, these people aren't to be toyed with.

"I'm not a sociopath," Stiles says defensively.

"No, I know you're not," his dad agrees sounding exhausted. "But sometimes... sometimes you take after your mother more than I'd like."

Stiles remembers her long hair fondly, the way the skin around her black eyes would crinkle as she laughed. Stiles remembers the way she had laughed with bloody hands and a blood stained dress before his father had shot her. He remembers her hands clawing up through the topsoil- Stiles shakes that thought off.

"I would never want to hurt you," Stiles whispers, unable to meet his fathers eyes. 

John shrugs, "Sometimes people hurt the ones they love."

Outside, there's a corpse's muffled howl. 

"And sometimes the dead rise and try to eat you," Stiles muses aloud as John holsters up and goes to check the perimeter.

+

When the active police force in Beacon Hills becomes the people living under his father's roof everyone but Stiles splits up into two shifts - night and day. Day patrols for twelve hours and then comes home and crashes as the night crew heads out for their twelve. Each day someone skips patrol duty to bum around the house while Stiles pores over every reference material he can find while haunting hopeful looking forums. 

At first it felt like having a mostly silent shadow but it's morphed into Stiles having a near constant babysitter. There are proprietary wolves shoving food at him, pulling him away from the computer every four hours to stretch, and shoving him into bed when his eyes get too heavy. It's not the worst thing in the world, because hey - _zombies_, but it slows him down. Slows down the research he's doing. 

For some reason, Stiles allows it to continue. 

+

Stiles does to do his best to ignore the werewolves in his house in much the same way he tries to ignore the world as it falls apart outside his fathers' house. 

He pretends not to notice that his dad's patrols are leaving him looking more exhausted. He tries not to think too much about how many cups of coffee he drinks in the hopes of getting a few more hours of research in before he collapses or is dragged off to bed. He tries to rationalize why several channels on their TV have turned into static and active radio stations are getting harder to find.

The message board's regular crew has been getting smaller and smaller over the week and the straws they're grasping at seem shorter and shorter. Sometimes when Stiles passes out he dreams of logging on to see no activity at all, other times he can't find a connection for his laptop. Each time he wakes up in the puppy pile of whatever culprits have decided to move him into his bed without his permission.

"It was just a dream," Erica slurs sleepily at Stiles when he wakes up in a cold sweat. One of her hands pulls his head to rest onto her shoulder. She holds him there, not allowing him to escape until his heart has steadied.

+

At some point between Scott becoming Stiles' designated generator operator and Stiles stumbling in to find Scott cooing over the kitten, they've become best buddies. It's gotten to the extent that Zephyr is often found riding around the house while curled up on Scott's head and clinging to his wolfy sideburns. Boyd glares anytime it happens, well aware that no amount of shoelace dragging or catnip will lure her away from Scott.

"She likes my hair," Scott confesses to Stiles over dinner. He's wearing the first hint of a smile that Stiles has seen in far too long.

It'd be cute, a kitty and a werewolf being buddies, only there's this whole thing involving the world ending and Scott appearing to have forgotten that he has a human form. Stiles tries to smile.

+

Stiles' dad leaves with the night crew just before the sun goes down, hugging Stiles tightly before peeling out of the driveway and driving off towards another twelve hour shift with Isaac riding shotgun. Derek, Boyd, and Erica are just returning from their post-patrol showers, flopping down with still damp hair to sprawl out onto the couch. The candlelight plays across them, and they look like hey belong in softcore porn instead of a real life apocalypse.

"How was patrol?" Scott asks, dragging a string across the floor for Zephyr while Boyd predictably sulks from across the room.

"The Martin house took on three more survivors we ran into today," Erica reports, "but that Lamia kid went out to scavenge for supplies and hasn't come back. We spent most of the day slicing our way through the town in hopes of finding his scent trail."

No one asks if they had any luck and Stiles silently adds the name _Jackson Whittemore_ to the list he's been keeping. It's getting longer each day and Stiles has yet to figure out how to stop it.

+

For the first time one of the patrol groups doesn't come home. There's no word from Isaac or Stiles' dad and Stiles feels like his head is about to explode by the time talk about a search party starts. Derek ends up cutting off Stiles' coffee soon after that, powering down his laptop without permission and shoving him towards Scott.

"He needs sleep," Derek says tightly, "make sure he gets it."

+

Erica finds the Sheriff's patrol car the next day - blackened and still smoking. The remains of Stiles' father and Isaac are found half a block away. Erica assures him it wasn't the dead who got them, but Stiles doesn't know why that's supposed to make him feel better.

Stiles breaks his hand on Scott's face when Scott blocks him from physically leaving the safety of the house by hooking a veil nullifier charm around his neck. Scott doesn't fight back when Stiles lashes out, doesn't try to duck away, simply stands there and lets Stiles wail and scream until he's too exhausted to do more. Around them the pack is making making soft noises and saying things like _shh, it's going to be okay,_ and _I'm sorry_. 

+

It's only later while held down by Scott and exhausted by his anger that Stiles remembers that the death of a loved one isn't a unique torture he's enduring. He lost a father, yes, but the pack has lost an Alpha _and_ a packmate. They're all feeling the same numb calm, the breathless burn in their chest calling for action (some action, any action), and the ache of a wound that has been ripped open because something reminded them of a lost one.

It's almost unfathomable to think the world could keep spinning while people kept losing the ones they loved for so long. Stiles wonders how many times it had felt like the world was ending before the world actually decided to end. 

It's even harder to understand how love, or the loss of love, hadn't already destroyed the world ten thousand times over. 

+

Scott refuses to take the charm off Stiles until he's satisfied that Stiles will stay put. Luckily, Derek doesn't know Stiles the way Scott does. The moment Derek lifts the necklace off Stiles he's already slipping through the veil.

+

Scott finds him, because Scott will always find him. 

Before the world ended people used to tease Scott about his grades and all the nuances of day to day life that seemed to baffle him - but Stiles knows better. Scott will never solve any mathematical quandaries or be able to explain how ionization works, but Scott will always know how to talk to someone who's scared and he'll always understand the riddles people carry inside themselves better than they do. 

It's the reason Scott is Stiles' best friend, it's the reason Scott will always lose the battles but win the war. 

"It's time to come back," Scott tells Stiles with a firm hand on his shoulder. Stiles nods, letting Scott guide him home while the pack clears their path with teeth and claws that are already coated in congealed blood.

+

Derek doesn't yell, doesn't rage, and doesn't even glare at Stiles when they're back to the safety of their house. Instead, he clenches his jaw and joins the others in checking Stiles for wounds. When the mollycoddling and scenting is done they all sit wearily at the table. 

"I had to see him," Stiles finds himself trying to explain. "He was my father."

"Next time you need to see something, take someone with you." Derek pauses, rubbing wearily at his face like he hopes he's trying to shake off the residual echo of a bad dream, "You're pack. So if you run off into danger…" he shrugs, "what else can we do but run with you?"

"So next time give us a heads up," Erica throws in. "Or a plan, a plan would be nice, too."

+

They bury Isaac and John under an Elm tree because the cemetery is too far away. On the way back they don't talk about how all the bodies they passed, both still and moving, will probably never be buried.

+

Stiles dreams of Scott running after a ghost and straight into a sea of dead bodies. They tear and claw at Scott, but Scott keeps going because Scott will never give up when he sets his mind to saving someone. 

_Mom!_ Scott screams and Stiles tries but never can catch him.

+

When Stiles wakes up Boyd is blinking at him, looking torn between indifference and irritation and shoves at Stiles' shoulder until he rolls on his side. Boyd drapes himself over Stiles, muttering the whole time about stupid-ass demons who spend all day reading books only to wake him up after he _just_ got back from patrolling. The words lack any real bite and Boyd's presence is solid, and like Scott he's made a habit of keeping himself between Stiles and the window.

Stiles isn't sure anymore if they're protecting him from something coming through window or trying to prevent him from slipping out and into the night. 

+

Stiles exhausts all available resources a week after his Dad and Isaac don't come back. When it finally sinks in that there are no more stones to overturn he finds himself having the first panic attack he's gotten since he turned fourteen. At some point Scott is there, shoving Zephyr into Stiles' hands and rubbing his back. The veins in his hands turn black and thick as the physical pain ebs away. 

+

Stiles finds himself cooking his dad breakfast that night and it doesn't feel strange. When John reaches for extra bacon Stiles slaps his hand away, citing his last doctor's report.

"Who cares?" John says, reaching for another piece.

Stiles slaps him away. "I do, you're not allowed to die."

"Stiles, you _know_ how I die. It's not because of _bacon_, it's because someone cut me from here," he points to his neck, "to here because they wanted my gun," John says dragging his finger down to his stomach. He frowns, looking confused. "Do you not remember? Do you want me to show you?"

Stiles shakes his head quickly, noticing for the first time that red has begun to seep through the fabric of his father's uniform. It's spreading quickly, but his dad doesn't seem to notice. When his dad reaches out to grab a piece of bacon Stiles doesn't stop him.

+

Derek is standing over his bed when Stiles comes gasping into consciousness. For a few minutes Stiles lays and breathes while Derek watches him with a tense look. For once Stiles' bed is empty, the feel of cold sheets almost as strange and unfamiliar as a world without his father.

Derek's hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Do you want me to stay?"

Stiles waves him off. "No, it's cool. I'm fine."

Derek nods, turning and looking at a spot on the wall behind Stiles. "_Could_ I stay?"

Derek won't meet Stiles' eyes, maintaining his focus on the wall like it's a matter of life or death. For some reason that's enough of a reason for Stiles to throw back the sheets in invitation. Derek toes off his shoes before climbing in and sprawling out next to Stiles with the same sense of propriety all the other wolves have had.

The world's still ending, but the warmth of another body makes it seem less painful.

+

There's a new member in the chat room the next morning, asking each member to give an estimated head count of the living they've encountered. _GoPetunias_ is using neon pink font and it gives Stiles a headache when he has to read it.

"Need a headcount," Stiles tells Derek over a can of pineapple.

Derek ignores him, too busy fishing out a piece of pineapple with slippery fingers. Stiles knocks their shoulders together to get his attention. He gets a glare when the motion sends a chunk of pineapple sliding out of reach.

"I hate you," Derek mutters, "so, so much."

"That's fine, but hate me as you count the number of living people in town."

+

Stiles avoids the message board after seeing the first couple reports coming in. None of the numbers are what he had hoped for.

"Twenty three," Derek says, looking hollowed out after his patrol.

Stiles opens his mouth to clarify, but Derek beats him to it.

"I covered the whole town. Half of the valley too."

"Right," Stiles draws out the word, trying not to compare the head count to the number on the city census data. A warm hand flits over Stiles' neck, squeezing gently before disappearing.

+

The total tally of survivors in the areas around the members of the board reaches four digits, just barely.

_We've carved out a safe spot in New Hampshire_ GoPetunias tells them. _anyone who can make it up here who isn't bent on world domination is welcome to join us. We have food, as much safety as you can come by these days, and five Knights and a badass vampire lady keeping watch for zombies and scoundrels._

Half the board calls bullshit and the other half wonders if it's worth risking death to check out. After ten pages of arguing GoPetunias posts a picture of a man in a cowboy hat and a CDC Knight's uniform holding up a laptop with the last page of the thread on the screen. He's standing in a vegetable garden with a smiling blonde child and a disgruntled looking vampire with black bands tattooed on her arm.

_In case you were wondering, yes, Aisha's as unpleasant as she looks in real life, and yes, Cougs is taken._ GoPetunias posts under his picture. 

+

No one says anything but Stiles notices the new layer of tension that's been added to everyone's shoulders when it's obvious no answers can be found with the resources they have. The clocks still refuse to move but unlike the clocks Scott, Stiles, and the remains of his dad's pack no longer have that luxury. Supplies continue to dwindle and tempers start to build between the three houses that remain in Beacon Hills. Soon enough there are two houses, the Martin house coming out mostly intact despite the siege laid upon it by the Smith house. The Smiths don't survive.

Derek is still limping, carrying most of Erica's weight when they return from patrol. Both of them are slowly healing from what looks like gunshot wounds in their thighs. 

"Lydia told us to consider this a warning," Derek wheezes, "Lincoln Street to Alvarado Avenue is her people's territory. She says next time there's a trespasser Danny won't miss."

Stiles grabs what remains of their first aid kit and mentally changes his tally from six friendlies to zero. 

+

Over a dinner of banana chips and Campbell's soup Stiles tells them about GoPetunias' offer. There's a bright and desperate gleam in the eyes of the others that makes Stiles point out over and over again that it could all be a trap.

"We should vote," Scott says cutting off another one of Stiles' warning.

+

No one votes to stay.

+

The police department's armored response vehicle is still abandoned in the middle of Main Street the next time Scott and Stiles go scavenging. Stiles jumps through the veil, coming out inside the front of the vehicle and opens the doors for Scott. Upon closer inspection it isn't comfortable by any means but it is the best chance Stiles can think of to get through the only open roads - Lydia's territory - leadings out of town without being turned into hole-y wolves and a dead Stiles.

"Where will we put the kitty litter bin?" Scott muses as Stiles sorts through the remains of the CVS pharmacy's stock.

Stiles has it on his tongue to tell Scott that they can't afford another mouth to feed - let alone one that can't contribute - when he notices Scott has wandered into the pet aisle. There's a small smile on his face as he picks up and examines two different package of brightly colored catnip mice. The hands holding the mice aren't full on claws, only slightly longer with denser nails. It's the closest to human Stiles has seen Scott go since the hospital.

"We'll find room," he promises, meaning every word. "Worst case scenario we make Derek hold the litter pan."

Scott laughs, and yeah, it's worth it.

\+ 

"Great, so we're all gonna die," Erica proclaims as soon as she catches sight of the armored vehicle parked at the curb.

"Correction," Stiles says, "we're gonna die looking like _badasses_."

+

"You should have told us." Derek clenches his jaw, shoving Stiles into a greasy booth and slapping an MRE down in front of him. "Stop being an idiot. If you need a break, you need a break. Running yourself ragged won't help anyone." He flashes Stiles his teeth, too long and sharp to be human. One of his hands darts out and steals the packet labeled _Lemon Poundcake_ from Stiles' MRE. 

"Hey!" Stiles tries to grab it back, but his head is still spinning too much to do more than wave his hands in the general direction of his stolen dessert.

Derek opens the packet with a smirk, "Idiots don't get dessert."

"Oh my god, that's _it_! I'm switching teams. Screw werewolves, I'm joining the zombies."

Scott pointedly ignores Stiles, reaching over to steal a chunk of Stiles' food to feed to Zephyr.

+

Erica's whining over the gas consumption and fabric patterns in the RV quickly turn into a happy rumble when she spots the bed. 

"Oh my god," she yells, clutching the sole pillow to her chest, "I call dibs, I call _all the dibs_ on the pillow."

+

The largest werewolf pack Stiles' has ever seen has laid claim to a strip of desert just outside of Reno. They survive, but just barely. Stiles has never jumped so many people at once - much less three people, supplies, and a cat - but he does it.

He doesn't remember leaving the veil with them, but when he wakes he's being carried between Erica and Boyd while they try to all cram into a midsize sedan that Derek appears to be hotwiring. In the distance wolves are howling and Scott is gripping Stiles' bat in one hand and Zephyr in the other while Derek curses at the wires in his hands.

"That's illegal," Stiles slurs at Derek, who glances at him before returning to his work. "Illegal means you're not supposed to do it even if the law is stupid. Dad says so."

"Your dad would understand," Derek tells him in a tight voice.

Stiles thinks on that, but not for long. Scott's shoulder isn't comfortable, but fuck if Stiles isn't more tired than he can ever remember being.

+

Humans end up destroying their sedan after they pass the charred remains of Texarkana. They have just enough time to grab two bags, the bat, and Zephyr before the ward they passed through turns the car into a ball of light that sends out shrapnel in every direction. The wolves run and Stiles jumps along with them through the veil until the crack of the human's rifles can't be heard. In-between one wheezing breath and the next Stiles makes a crack about contacting their insurance agent. It's not funny, not really, but Erica starts laughing and doesn't stop. When she starts to claw at her arms Derek crushes Erica to his chest and wraps himself around her. When she's been reduced to quiet whimpers Derek hands her off to Boyd, who strokes her hair and whispers into her ears. Her claws are embedded in his sides but he doesn't seem to care.

Stiles looks away from them just in time to notice Derek watching him. Stiles raises one eyebrow in question.

"Your nose," Derek says motioning towards it.

Stiles blindly feels at his face and his hands come back sticky with blood.

"I'm stronger than them," Derek says kicking at the dirt at his feet while surveying the horizon, "strong enough to carry you if you can't jump." 

"Well," Stiles says, unsure of what to think of that, "that's nice."

+

Scott is the first to notice that the swarms of dead seem to be thinning - more and more lifeless bodies littering the roads and cities they pass. 

"Their food source - us - is becoming depleted," Stiles guesses, squatting down to observe a lifeless corpse with dried blood caked around its mouth.

"So we're playing by _I am Legend_ rules?" Erica says as she nudges the body with her boot.

Stiles blinks up at her, a genuine smile blooming on his face. "Oh my god, have I mentioned that I wouldn't mind being naked with you, because I wouldn't mind it at all."

For some reason while Boyd is dragging a giggling Erica away from Stiles Derek is shoving him to the other side of the gas station that's their shelter for the night. He drags Stiles' sleeping bag over and lays it on his own before pulling them both down into a mini puppy pile. A few feet away Scott ignores Stiles' requests for rescue, content to pet Zephyr as she kneads her claws on his stomach.

"If you really wanted to escape," Derek grumbles as he moves Stiles around like he's Derek's very own pillow before resting his head on Stiles' shoulder, "you'd jump."

"You don't know anything about me or what I want," Stiles protests on principle.

Scott chuffs, and Stiles cranes his neck to send him a dirty look. 

"Dude, look at your hands," Scott tells him with an unapologetic smile.

Stiles looks, finding one wrapped around Derek's arm and the other buried in his hair. 

"Huh," Stiles says, for lack of better response.

"Yeah," Derek mocks, "_huh._"

+

The writing is quite literally on the wall.

Derek is siphoning gas with Erica while Stiles, Boyd, and Scott scavenge the local Safeway when Stiles notices the graffiti.

_no help is coming,_ it says in large blocky letters.

+

Stiles stays busy on the road by grabbing and reading everything he can find at whatever place they've stopped. He rips out the pages with information that might be useful, reads about how to brine and roast a chicken, and learns more than he ever wanted to know about the lives of celebrities. When he gets bored with his books and magazines sometimes he likes to wonder if the people in the pictures are still alive.

Outside the windows of their car _du jour_ the days and miles keep passing with no relief in sight but Derek's thigh is warm where it rests against his.

+

The last radio station they'd been able to find falls to static just after they enter Ohio. Derek pulls the car over to the side of the road and turns four trees into splinters without a word. He stays stays shifted for five days afterwards and lets Boyd drive as he curls up in the back row of their SUV with his head on Stiles' lap.

+

On the sixth day Derek shifts back.

"Sorry," he tells Stiles. He sounds like he means it.

"Eh," Stiles tries to brush it off as nothing, "it's the end of the world, I'd be more worried if someone _didn't_ have a breakdown over something massively insignificant."

Derek's lips twitch up despite his obvious attempts to smother a smile.

"I'd like to point out that I've yet to have a breakdown," Boyd points out with a smug look. Scott's empty can of green beans goes sailing through the air and hits Boyd on the head.

"That's what you get for being a showoff."

+

Boyd's breakdown happens in New York. It isn't pretty, but it gets Erica back from the witches who had her.

"Boyd," she calls to him, running shaking hands down the side of his face, "Boyd, baby, look at me."

Boyd stares through them all, straight into nothing for a week solid. He only moves and eats with Erica's urgings or Derek's orders. Thankfully, when a stretch of highway turns into an ambush Boyd comes back to himself, i the moment between Derek ripping out a man's throat and Stiles bashing in a werewolf's head with his bat. 

When it's safe he curls around Erica and begs for the forgiveness she's already given him.

+

Outside of the road sign announcing the arrival to New Hampshire there is guard tower made from rock magic. The two people in the tower are the first people that they've run into that don't attack them.

"Don't let your guard down," Derek tells them all needlessly.

Stiles frowns, "Does this mean I'm not allowed to tell them our greatest weakness?"

+

The people's names are Clay and Jolene, and after being read and vetted by Jolene they're given directions to what Clay calls _safety_ and Jolene calls _home_. Clay and Jolene see them off with a smile and promise to see them soon. Just like that, there's an end in sight. They drive in silence and when Derek's hand seeks out Stiles' in the fading light of the sun Stiles grabs on and holds for dear life.

**Author's Note:**

> Was previously posted, then taken down. Now it's back up. Beware the errors and typos, I suspect the files I found on my old hard drive are the pre-beta versions.  
Please don't steal any of my silly stories and change some names around and then try to sell them as books on Amazon or I'm gonna have to take everything down again.


End file.
